


Attrition

by bananapudding



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bathing/Washing, Emetophobia, Frottage, Hangover, M/M, Shower Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananapudding/pseuds/bananapudding
Summary: Ryouma continually reaches out to Izou in his most vulnerable moments, the picture of good intentions. Izou will never let himself believe that it means anything.





	Attrition

At this point, Izou is more used to awakening with a pounding headache than without. The cotton mouth, the static vision, the sluggish throb of his pulse—it all dulls his senses, familiar as a greeting from an old enemy. There are some mornings when he can't find it in himself to care. There are others still when he lies in bed for longer than necessary and stews over how terribly unfair it is that having to live on as a servant didn't take away the only setback of drinking himself to sleep.

Really, life is full of unfair things like that.

There is nothing more unfair, though, than having his hangover interrupted by a relieved, “Ah, you're finally awake. Good morning. Or afternoon, as it were.”

Izou’s eyes snap open. The bright lights in his room immediately prove to be too much, and he digs the heels of his palms into his sockets with a hoarse groan, stars bursting behind his eyelids.

“You,” he growls, “you—!”

“Now, now. Calm down, Izou-san, getting worked up like that will make it worse,” Ryouma chides him, gentle as always. How infuriating.

Izou pulls his hands away from his face, shoots Ryouma a glare through narrowed eyes, and spits, “The hell are you doin’ in my room? Don't fuckin’ remember invitin’ you.”

“No, you didn't, this time,” Ryouma says with a calm smile. The unnecessary “this time” tacked onto the statement makes Izou flinch, but Ryouma either doesn't notice or pretends not to. “You were passed out again from drinking last night, so I found you and brought you here. I'm here again now because I wanted to check on you.”

“Gee, how nice of ya,” Izou snorts. “Well, you’ve done that. I’m not dead just yet, so you can leave now unless you’re lookin’ to get stabbed.”

Ryouma ignores him. Rather than leaving, he steps closer, a cup of water held in his outstretched hand. “Here. if you drink this, you’ll feel better.”

“Oh, _fuck_ off,” Izou says, lip curled. On instinct, he lashes out and knocks the cup out of Ryouma’s hand, spilling its contents onto Ryouma’s pants leg and the floor. The cup clatters against the tile, plastic on linoleum, too loud for Izou’s sensitive ears but no louder than his voice when he snarls, “I bet you think this is real fuckin’ funny, huh? You always wanna show up when I’m not at my best so you can laugh at me. Well, go on and laugh, then! Laugh at me like I’m some washed up old fart who can’t take care of himself anymore!”

Ryouma doesn’t laugh at him. He just stands there, features unmoved, but there’s a look of palpable sadness in his eyes. It twists itself in Izou’s gut like a rusted blade, and only then does he realize how shallow his own breaths have become, how his shoulders tremble.

After a few moments, Ryouma wordlessly bends to pick up the cup, but Izou stops him. 

“I can get it,” he says, quiet. “At least lemme clean up my own messes.”

He swings his legs over the side of his bed and rises. Just when he thinks he can support his own weight, though, pain surges through his skull like a crack splitting glass, sets his ears ringing and his stomach churning. His knees buckle beneath him, but he doesn’t feel them hit the ground with the surge of nausea rolling, peaking—

There isn’t much for him to heave, but he coughs it all out into the mess on the floor anyway, sour and watery. Amidst his gagging, there are fingers in his hair, pulling stray clumps of it out of his face until the violent motions subside into a fit of shivering.

“Fuck,” he croaks against the burn in the back of his throat. “_Fuck._”

Ryouma’s hands retreat from his face and tug gently at his arm instead, helping him back to his feet. This time, Izou doesn’t resist. He’s already forfeited whatever scraps of dignity he’d been clinging to when he puked inches from Ryouma’s shoes, anyway.

“Here, let’s get you cleaned up,” Ryouma says. He guides Izou to the bathroom, and Izou shuffles along with him, legs still wobbly and eyes squinted to stave off the persistent pain behind them.

_Pathetic_, he thinks. He must look unbelievably pathetic in this state. Ryouma still doesn't laugh at him. Izou still struggles to parse that.

The bathroom light flicks on and Ryouma’s hand leaves. He takes a washcloth from the sink, runs it under the faucet for some seconds, and then turns and offers it to Izou.

Izou sneers as though he’d just been offered a used dishrag instead. “What, not gonna wipe my face clean for me, too?”

“Did you want me to?”

“Hell no. Gimme that.” Izou snatches the cloth and runs it clumsily over his face from the forehead down, sweat and spit all coming away with it. He tosses it back into the sink after that and rubs at his eyes, where he's positive he can still feel his pulse even now.

“A bath will probably help, too,” Ryouma says. “I can give you some privacy.”

“Why’s everything outta your mouth gotta sound so condescendin’.” It’s not really a question so much as a complaint.

“I’m not trying to condescend. I only check in on you because I like to help you, if I can.”

“Yeah, why’s that, anyway?” Izou glowers at Ryouma from beneath the hand still held to his forehead. “You don’t come to laugh at me, so, what. Am I your charity case now?” He barks a short, dry laugh. “That’s it, ain’t it? Ya feel bad for me? ‘Cause it’s just soooo hard for you to watch me drown my sorrows in sake all the time, huh. Or maybe, maybe it’s so _you_ can feel better about how you—”

“That’s enough,” Ryouma interrupts. The unfamiliar curtness in his voice is enough to stop Izou short. Ryouma lets out a deep sigh, the lines set in his face appearing all the more weary. “We don’t need to do this every time. You’re free to be mad at me, but I’d prefer to leave the past in the past.”

Izou regards him for a few seconds, hackles lowered only slightly, before turning his face away. “Tch. Whatever,” he says. He steps past Ryouma, still unsteady on his feet. “A’ight, I’m takin’ a bath. Fuck off or don’t, doesn’t make a difference to me how you stroke your damn ego.”

He doesn’t look at Ryouma anymore as he crouches to run the water in the tub, but he hears him say, “I’ll go clean up in the other room, then.” That’s when he recalls the incident from just minutes earlier, and hot shame washes over him, almost as tangible as the water slipping through his fingers.

“Fuck,” he whispers again. “Damn that Ryouma…”

Trying to physically shake the feeling away only makes his headache worse, as though his brain’s being tossed around in a jar. He holds his temple with a grimace as he waits for the tub to fill up. The throbbing hasn’t subsided by the time there’s enough water to soak in, but there’s nothing to be done for it. He can only sigh, peel away his sweaty clothes, and carefully lower himself into the tub.

Izou, despite many contrary rumors, likes baths. He doesn’t take them as frequently as Ryouma and his master nag him to because he never got used to doing it daily, but they aren’t bad. He prefers showers—they’re quicker, and he likes the sensation of water drumming against his skin—but this time, he’s not sure he could handle one without slipping or something equally humiliating. His hangover is worse today than it usually is, awful enough that he can’t even remember why he drank as much as he did the previous night.

He draws his knees up higher, presses his forehead against one of them, and groans. He feels disgusting all over, as he always does after a long evening of drinking gives him the sweats and the shakes, but the warmth of the water alleviates that somewhat. He closes his eyes and breathes in slow, letting the tension melt out of his shoulders, letting the thrum of his own blood and the leftover drips from the faucet be the only sounds to reach his ears.

Idly, he wonders if Ryouma’s left yet. It would be easier if he had. It would be like always, Izou thinks: he makes a mess, Ryouma cleans it up, Ryouma leaves. Ryouma leaves him alone again. Izou wants to be left alone, probably. It’s better for people not to see him like this, and it’s better for him to believe that Ryouma will continue to remain the same, only ever showing up and then disappearing again when it suits him.

The guilt in his chest is heavy, though. If Ryouma goes away, he won’t take it with him. It will remain with Izou even if he doesn’t know why it’s there, sickening, an acidic taste in the back of his throat that can only be stifled with hard liquor.

Izou is meant to be alone, he knows, but he can never decide whether that’s what feels right.

“Izou-san?” Ryouma’s voice comes from the doorway, jarring him out of his thoughts. “Ah, for a second I was worried that you’d fallen asleep in there.”

Of course, nothing can ever be easy. Izou tilts his head to look at Ryouma, cheek still pressed to his knee. “As if,” he says. “Not with this bitch of a headache.”

“I see. I could go get some medication for that from the sick bay, if that would help.”

“S’fine. Don’t ya think you’ve done enough already?”

Ryouma handwaves the question. “It’s not too much trouble, really.” 

“It ain’t a matter of whether it’s trouble on your part or not,” Izou says with a scoff. “It’s a matter of you bein’ a damn busybody. Sayin’ it ain’t too much trouble is a lie to start with, too, we both know that.”

“It’s not a lie. You aren’t too much trouble, Izou-san.” It’s the exact same statement as before, almost, but the intention behind it is clearer. Izou may be a sorry excuse for a person, but somehow, Ryouma doesn’t think him a burden.

When he doesn’t respond, Ryouma approaches the tub, footsteps as cautious as they might be when approaching a skittish animal. “You haven’t even taken your hair down, yet.”

Izou snorts. “Who cares.”

“Well, I suppose it isn’t a big deal, but…” Ryouma stands at the edge of the tub now, head slightly inclined to better peer at Izou’s face. “May I?”

Izou shoots him a glare out of the corner of his eye. The temptation to tell him to fuck off again remains, but what he says is, “I don’t care.”

Ryouma takes that as an invitation. He tugs Izou’s hair out of the ponytail he keeps it tied up in so that it tumbles down his shoulder blades. Izou lets it happen, doesn’t jerk away from the fingers in his hair even though a part of him itches to. He recalls how these same hands have held his hair back countless times as his stomach emptied itself, just like earlier. Ryouma’s hands are gentle, unsuited to violence, just like the rest of him. Izou thinks that that makes everything about him hurt all the more.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles into his own skin without even thinking.

“Huh?”

“For- for earlier.” Izou swallows, stiff all over again. “Makin’ a mess, leavin’ you to clean it up. Though you shoulda just left it to me.”

“Ah, well. Don’t think anything of that,” Ryouma says. “I know you could’ve done it yourself, but you were focused on other things.”

“That's a way of puttin’ it.” Izou buries his face harder against his leg. The pain in his head is no longer skull-splitting, but he could swear it flares up worse than before when he continues, “The other stuff, too.”

“Pardon?”

“The other stuff was shitty too. Like—urgh, don't make me fuckin’ repeat myself. The hangover’s got me in a bad mood, so just don't worry about any of it,” Izou says. His words come out coarse and clumsier than he’d like, but it's the best he can do in this state.

“I see.” There's relief in Ryouma’s voice. “Does that mean I can stay, then?”

“Were you just not listenin’ earlier when I said I don’t care? Do whatever ya want.”

“Alright then, I guess I will.”

The scrape of plastic prompts Izou to squint over at Ryouma again. The other man has pulled a stool over to the edge of the tub to sit on, and is now in the process of removing and pocketing his gloves.

Izou gawks. “Wha—”

“You said that I could do whatever I wanted,” Ryouma says as he rolls up his sleeves.

“Yeah, but,” Izou’s cheeks flare with heat, “the hell’s the matter with you? What, ya think it’s entertainin’ to watch someone bathe?”

Ryouma retrieves a cup and settles himself on the stool. “I was just going to wash your hair, if that’s okay. You haven’t even gotten it wet yet.”

“I was gonna get to that,” Izou huffs. “You’ve got a wife to do that kinda stuff for. Weirdo.”

“Oryou-san doesn’t mind if I do it for you, too.” Izou knows this. Ryouma may be a dodgy bastard, but even if he’d lie to anyone else, he’d never lie to his wife. That’s the one line he’ll never cross to get what he wants. Izou swallows his resentment, limits it to a scowl when Ryouma adds, “If she were here, she’d probably say that you need it.”

“Oh yeah? Fuckin’ snake prolly needs it worse than I do.”

“Now, now. There’s no need for that.” Ryouma dips the cup into the bathwater, his opposite hand hovering close enough to the back of Izou’s neck to make his skin prickle. “Ah, head up, please. I wouldn’t want to get it in your eyes.”

“Now you’re definitely treatin’ me like I’m some bedridden old man,” Izou says, but even for as sour as his words are, he still complies. His eyes slide shut and the water slides through his hair in small splashes, once, twice, three times. Izou’s hair is thick enough that it takes a minute, but Ryouma continues until it lies flat and nearly straight against his upper back.

He keeps both his eyes and mouth closed as Ryouma massages shampoo into his hair. Goosebumps spread across the nape of his neck with the urge to bolt from the touch, yet it isn't bad. It feels nice, even. He wants to lean into it. He wants to flee the room. His muscles twitch with indecision, but ultimately his dignity will allow him to do neither, so there he remains: seated in the tub, holding his knees, letting the person he tries so hard to hate scrub him clean.

Ryouma begins to rinse his hair out again in the same soothing rhythm as before. The sloshing of water and the thump of his own heartbeat are the only sounds occupying his ears in lieu of any actual conversation. Ryouma seems comfortable in the relative silence, but Izou can’t quiet the noise in his head.

“Ryouma,” he says.

“Hm?”

“Why,” he cracks one eye open, chances a peek at Ryouma out of the corner of it, “why’re you here?”

Ryouma blinks, puzzled. “Because you said that I could be.”

“That ain't what I meant. Ya keep stickin’ around me even though you’ve got no reason to,” Izou says. What he doesn't say is that Ryouma has even less reason to stay when all Izou knows how to do is push him away. “You're not laughin’ at me, so I'm not enough to be free entertainment, I guess. If it’s ‘cause ya really do just think I'm pitiful, at least tell me that to my face.”

“I feel like you’ve asked me this question before,” Ryouma says as he continues to scoop water over Izou’s head. “And I feel like I’ve given you an answer.”

“See, there ya go again, tip-toein’ around questions. Never givin’ me a straight answer. Think it’s fun to just say shit knowing I can’t figure out what the hell you mean?”

Ryouma shakes his head. “That isn’t my intention. I feel like you just don’t believe me when I say that I care about you.”

Izou wheezes out a bitter laugh, one that makes the ache in his chest and his head all the worse. “Well, ya got that right. What kinda idiot do you take me for, Ryouma? Even if it were true, that ain’t a real reason to hang around some man-slayer.”

“It’s as real a reason as any other,” Ryouma says. He smooths his hands through Izou’s hair one last time, sets the cup down, and bends closer. He’s close enough that he can properly look Izou in the eye, now, close enough that their foreheads might almost touch if not for that silly Western hat Ryouma wears. “It’s fine if you don’t want to believe me. But I do care about you, Izou. I never stopped.”

All at once, the smile melts off of Izou’s face. Ryouma’s voice is soft in a way that can only be on purpose, yet it still coils its way into Izou’s chest, sits there like a lump he can hardly breathe around. This is how he always wins: small acts of kindness, administered in the moments where Izou is most vulnerable. This is why, try as he might to cling to anger as his only defense, Izou cannot hate Ryouma.

“You…” He licks his lips, words shaking on his tongue. “You really are the worst, Ryouma.”

Ryouma’s hand strokes the back of Izou’s head, placating. “I know.”

Izou has kissed Ryouma before, and it’s the same each time. Ryouma is passive, inviting, and it is always Izou who inevitably breaks and draws him close. He hates it, hates his own weakness as a substitute for hating Ryouma, but that doesn’t stop him from acting. It’s no different now, either. He kisses Ryouma, hard and hungry, and Ryouma lets him do so until Izou has to stop for lack of air.

His breaths come raggedly, then, as he stares at Ryouma’s face. Ryouma is breathing hard, too, almost as flushed as Izou feels, but he still doesn’t move. He only sits back when Izou draws away entirely, wiping at his mouth.

“Ah,” he says, struck with a sudden and mortifying realization, “fuck, I- my mouth prolly still tastes like—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ryouma still rolls with the punches as gracefully as ever, it seems. In fact, he’s smiling when he says, “I didn’t think you’d get self-conscious about something like that.”

“Shuddup!” Izou stammers, teeth bared. “If you’re gonna start makin’ fun of me, you can just get the hell out!”

Ryouma holds both hands up in defense. “Oh, no, no, I wasn’t making fun. It was a considerate thing for you to worry about.” He props his elbows on his knees and leans closer again, fingers folded, his gaze docile but full of purpose. “I’d like to be considerate, too. Is there anything else you want me to do?”

The pointed nature of the question causes another, more horrifying realization to set in: there are indeed other things Izou would like Ryouma to do. His body tells him as much. In response, his lips purse and his legs close a bit.

“I can wash myself the rest of the way, if that's what you're askin’,” he replies, weakly.

“Well, that's about halfway what I meant, yes.”

Ryouma’s eyes are still trained on Izou, but they remain locked on his face instead of trailing down. Somehow, Izou thinks that's worse. There's nothing he hates more than scrutiny. He squirms and thinks on how much easier it is when Ryouma forgoes the formalities in favor of just touching him instead, no beating around the bush. It's so much nicer when Ryouma doesn't waste his time asking questions they both already know the answer to.

Even so, Izou caves. “Oh, fuck’s sake. If there’s something ya wanna do…” He grabs Ryouma hard by the wrist and pulls his hand close, right up to his leg. “Then just do it. Ain’t in the mood to play mind games with ya this time.”

Ryouma chuckles and scoots closer, close enough that he can rest one arm on the edge of the tub. “If you say so,” he says as he lets his hand trail down, down Izou’s thigh until it reaches his core.

Ryouma knows Izou’s body. He's known it since before he knew his own wife’s. He understands that Izou’s grip will remain steadfast even though his leg trembles, and he doesn't express surprise when he finds Izou half-hard already. He looks a tad too pleased with himself, but at the very least, he doesn't say anything as he curls his fingers around Izou and begins to stroke.

“Fuck,” Izou whispers. Naturally, it follows that Ryouma must know how to make Izou shiver all the way down to his toes. The pain lingering in his head is steadily being pushed aside in favor of the pleasure warming his blood. “Shit, Ryouma.”

“Is that okay?” 

“Mm… mhm.”

“Good.” Ryouma smiles. “Let me know if it gets to be too much. Though, I’ve heard this kind of thing is actually good for dealing with a hangover, since it lets your blood circulate more quickly, filtering out the—”

Izou shuts his eyes. “Oi, Ryouma.”

“Hm?”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah. Got it.” Ryouma at least has the sense to sound sheepish. He returns all of his attention to Izou’s cock, fluid movements of his wrist and thumb that send little jolts right to the base of Izou’s spine.

Izou’s eyes remain closed, in part because shutting out the light makes the sensations all the sharper, and in part because he doesn't know what else to do with himself. More often than not, he's in a position where he can touch Ryouma back. Now, all he can think to do is squeeze tighter around Ryouma’s wrist with each tug, fingertips held right to his pulse point. Ryouma’s pulse is quick, but steady. It's not erratic like Izou’s, swimming more and more frantic in his ears. It's steady like everything else about him, like the gentle, experienced up and down motions of his hand, like the heat spreading in Izou’s lower belly.

Izou is going to come undone, just as always. Ryouma knows how to make short work of unraveling him, and it never fails, because to him Izou has not changed. He will continue to be predictable, and he will never know any other way to be, and so Ryouma will always get away with it.

Izou hisses in his breath. It's good, so good that it makes him wonder whether his blood boils with excitement or vexation. Ryouma’s thumb rubs the tip of Izou’s cock, right at the point where it dips, and it's too good for him to abide.

Izou grabs Ryouma’s wrist until he's sure it hurts. “Ryouma.”

“Ah- what is it?” Ryouma asks, and the motions slow until Izou pushes him away outright.

Izou leans forward to drain the tub, movements staggered but urgent. He can feel Ryouma’s eyes on him, full of bewilderment, but he doesn't look at him. Instead, he grabs the side of the tub hard and shifts onto his knees, then his feet. His head spins, and he blinks hard to stave it off, rising slowly. He remembers all at once why he’d first opted for a bath instead of a shower, but plopping back down on his ass is the only thing that could make him look an even bigger fool now.

“Got tired of just sittin’ there,” he says. He turns on the showerhead, relieved to find the water still lukewarm, and jerks his chin to the side. “Are ya gonna finish what you started or not?”

That's enough for Ryouma to understand. “Well, since you're inviting me,” he says as he gets to his feet with an all-too-satisfied smile. He takes his time undressing, shucking his layers off one by one and folding them into neat squares to set them on the stool. Just watching him is maddening. He moves the same way he always does—like he knows that he's being watched, except in this case it's a revel rather than a cause for alarm. He moves as though to savor every palpable wave of Izou’s frustration.

Izou’s teeth grit. He grabs the base of his own cock, aching now with want, and hisses, “I didn't ask for a goddamn striptease, asshole. Get in here before I change my mind and take care a’ this myself.”

“Sorry,” Ryouma says, not sounding very sorry at all. He finishes by placing his hat on top of the little stack of clothes he made, then steps into the tub behind Izou. “Since I didn't bring a change of clothes with me, I’d rather not dirty or wrinkle those.”

“You're always worryin’ about shit that doesn't matter.”

“Well, not right now, I'm not.” Ryouma’s voice is close to Izou’s ear now, low and smooth as silk. His hands, too, are smooth as they find Izou’s sides and snake inwards again. Ryouma’s lips catch the tip of Izou’s shoulder, just barely, but it's enough to send a shiver rippling outwards from the point of contact.

Ryouma finds where Izou’s hand has stilled and attempts to replace it with his own, and for a moment, Izou lets him. He forgets himself, thinks only about how nice it will be to finally let go. It’s Ryouma’s hot, unsteady sighs into his skin that cause him to remember his original intentions. He can feel that Ryouma’s hard, too, pressed right up against his backside, and it’s a reminder not to let himself be outdone.

“Hey,” Izou says, with a grip to interrupt Ryouma’s movements. Ryouma stills, and Izou wrests himself away just enough to turn to face him. “I told ya I was tired of just sittin’ there. So, at least lemme…”

Izou trails off, and Ryouma nods. “I see. Go ahead, then.”

Izou licks his too-dry lips and reaches for the base of Ryouma’s erection. Ryouma’s own hold on Izou’s cock doesn’t waver, but a noise buds in the back of his throat when Izou grasps him and tugs, gently, skin slippery. Through the steam filling his headspace, Izou recalls what Ryouma likes and shifts his hand into a familiar rhythm, base to tip. The effort proves worth it when Ryouma leans in more, free hand finding Izou’s hip.

“Ya like that?” Izou asks, grinning. “S’good, right? See, you’re not the only one who’s good with his hands.”

Ryouma puffs out a soft laugh. “I never doubted that you were.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t forget it.” He tries to make it sound like a warning, but he’s not sure how effective it is when his voice is close to cracking.

“I’m sure I won’t.”

Izou is used to Ryouma’s unperturbed demeanor, but it bothers him nonetheless. It bothers him, sometimes, because in comparison he falls apart so easily. Half a scowl on his lips, he draws himself even closer to Ryouma and swipes the other man’s hand out from between them. Ryouma stares at him with raised brows, but Izou keeps him silent with a narrow-eyed look and a squeeze at the base of his cock.

“Just. Just lemme,” he says, by way of explanation. “I’ll do it.”

So Ryouma does let him. He lifts his hands away altogether, resting them on Izou’s biceps, and Izou pulls their bodies ever closer until he’s able to take both their cocks in one hand and stroke. The difference is immediate; the tips of Ryouma’s fingers press harder into Izou’s muscles, and Izou has to pause for a couple of seconds to collect himself because it’s almost too much again. The pressure from his own palm is new, hotter than before, and even more so when he feels Ryouma’s pulse beating against his.

He curves his free arm around Ryouma’s back to plant a hand near the base of his spine, steadying himself. He resumes rubbing, fingers curling loose and tight and loose again with each stroke, tighter up top to nudge their heads together. Each press of unprotected skin on skin sets his nerves alight. His heart beats fast but his thoughts come syrupy slow like the steam in the air. The sensation runs up his spine and down his legs until they come dangerously close to wobbling. With every clench of his palm, he plucks at another seam holding him together, containing the heat surging in his gut. He refuses to let it spill over, though, not yet. Only when Ryouma shakes apart will he do the same.

Ryouma pushes his hips up into Izou’s hand at an uneven tempo, muted gasps escaping onto Izou’s shoulder. He’s never been loud, but he is expressive: mouth slack, eyes closed, brows furrowed as if in concentration. The satisfaction of seeing him like this swells with the knot at the base of Izou’s stomach, enough to prompt him to jerk his own hips in time. Close, he realizes, he’s close. They both are.

He’s startled out of his haze when one of Ryouma’s hands disappears from his upper arm. It reaches down between them again, finds where their cocks are pressed together, and envelopes Izou’s own fingers, trembling yet firm.

“That’s, ah… it’s good,” Ryouma murmurs. “Really good—you’re doing so good, Izou.”

Izou freezes. The words were all he wanted to hear, but he can only feel dismay at the way his abdomen jumps, the way he throbs against his palm. For a hot and horrifying moment, he’s certain that he’s going to come right then and there.

Somehow, he doesn’t. His breath shakes in his lungs and his hand shakes beneath Ryouma’s, but he’s not yet finished. It takes a few seconds for the realization to sink in, but when it does, he jerks his wrist with renewed determination in the same learned motions as always. Up and down, tight and loose, fingers reaching the slick head of Ryouma’s cock and grazing the edge of it each time, because he knows that with this Ryouma will unravel.

Ryouma groans, hand curled around Izou’s arm almost hard enough to bruise. His composure fractures little by little, his thrusts into their joined hands growing clumsier with every second until at last it’s enough to prove Izou right.

“Izou—” It tumbles out like an unwitting plea as he comes. Izou _feels_ him come, feels it stain his hand, and he feels for once like he’s won.

Perhaps that’s what sends him falling over the edge soon after with a loud, broken curse. His eyes screw shut against the rapid firing of his synapses, the drowning of all sensations except for his and Ryouma’s bodies pressed so close he’d think they can no longer separate. He doesn’t remember that his head was aching. He can’t imagine what a headache even feels like, now. For a short and blissful period, all he knows is relief.

It would be nice to remain in that space, suspended in the warmth of the shower, in Ryouma’s grip. It feels unfair that after some time reality assaults him again with the same dull pounding at the back of his skull and the same weakness running down to his knees.

Then again, life is full of unfair things like that.

He doesn’t open his eyes at first. He has to wait for his senses to dull so as not to be overwhelmed by it all. He listens to the pounding of water against tile, and registers hands on him, one pressed between his shoulder blades and the other weaved into his soaked hair. He lets it all happen as he softly breathes, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

“I told ya,” he finally says, unmoving. “Not to underestimate me.”

“I never did,” Ryouma’s voice answers. “I know you’re very capable, Izou-san.”

Izou grunts. He ignores that the honorific has wormed its way back into Ryouma’s speech and says instead, “You better not be condescendin’ again.”

“I would never. Are you feeling any better, now?”

“Mm.” Izou hums, ponders this. “Still feel like shit. I won’t puke on ya, though.”

Ryouma chuckles. “I appreciate it.”

Izou pulls his head back to look at Ryouma and shakes the hands out of his hair. Ryouma’s cheeks are pink, but he has the same serene expression as always, as though unmoved by everything that just transpired. His composure has clicked back into place like clockwork. Izou, for once, is too exhausted to be mad about it.

With a grunt, he runs his hand under the stream of water to ensure that it’s clean. He’s at a loss for words, and so it’s wordlessly that he reaches for Ryouma’s hair. Ryouma makes a “Hm?” noise, but doesn’t flinch away as Izou tugs away the band keeping it tied up behind his head.

“Forgot to take your ponytail out before getting in,” Izou says, flicking it away. “Idiot.”

“Oh, is that so? I thought it was my job to worry about things that don’t matter.”

“Shuddup.” He gives Ryouma an ineffectual swat on the chest, and Ryouma laughs.

Once more, Izou feels the itch between his ribs, the growing need to push Ryouma away. He should, he knows. He should finish getting clean and then fall right back into his bed for a nap. He should let things go back to the way that they usually are between them, where it’s easier to believe that he hates Ryouma and that Ryouma doesn’t care.

As though he can read Izou’s thoughts, Ryouma asks, “Are you going to get back to washing yourself? You can have the water first.”

“In a minute,” Izou says, head tipping forward until it rests against Ryouma's collarbone. “Just… just gimme a li’l longer.”

“Ah, take your time, then. We’re in no hurry.”

His hand trails up and down the length of Izou’s spine, soothing. Almost against his will, Izou relaxes into the touch. He knows that the moment will not last, just as much as he knows that when it’s over he will berate himself for his weakness for what he's sure won't be the last time. Until then, at the very least, he can pretend that he deserves this.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew this got long. It felt bad to leave Oryou-san out, but I'm not good at writing threesomes... but I promise everything is consensual because I don't like cheating. Hopefully I can make her appear in a later fic...?


End file.
